Catalyst
Summary: Oneshot. This is not a game she's ever played before, yet somehow she already knows all the rules.
Disclaimer: The DW and Marvel universes do not belong to me and I make no money from writing these stories.
It isn't Midgard, but it certainly looks like it. Loki is cleverer than most, but that doesn't mean he understands this. In the privacy and safety of his own mind, he can admit that he has made a mistake this time. This is not at all where he was meant to end up.
This time he knows he's got to blend in — it's unwise to go around announcing that he's a god, given the circumstances. Then again, he would be stunned if anyone else could find this place. After all, it's not in any of the seven realms that he knows of. It's certainly not Midgard.
The first step to assimilation is to find some new clothes. It's late and the shops ought to close soon, and Loki, of course, has no money. He hides his staff and helmet in a park and heads off to a large, several-story shop with the title Topshop emblazoned on its front. It is packed with people, which should make it easier to blend in. With purpose, Loki strides decisively towards the shop.
It's late and Rose just wants to go home. Between drama with Mickey and her stupid bills and her stupid job, she's worn out, and yet, there's no hope of any changes on the horizon. She daydreams of all the ways she might turn her own life upside-down, but even the most accessible options seem far off; impossible.
At twenty-three, this is not how she imagined her life looking, and yet, did she ever have even the vaguest idea of what it ought to be? Blurry notions of fame, of posing in front of a camera, of designer handbags and handsome, famous, rich men pepper her imagination, but she has always, on some level, understood that her imagination is where these images shall always remain. She'll never be famous — why would she be famous? She's not talented, she's not particularly beautiful.
Folding leather skirts on a display table, she mechanically goes through the motions. Her headset is on, but she absorbs almost none of the conversation between the other employees. Her big brown eyes rove over the shoppers. They all look the same: the thin girls with the perfectly trendy hair cuts and artfully hip clothing, the boys with the girl haircuts and tight trousers. It all comes off as desperation, a sort of desperation that depresses her from this angle.
Then she sees him. In this sea of adolescents, it's hard to miss him, of course, and it isn't just because of the absurd outfit consisting of armor, and, yes, a cape. It's incredible, in this sea of fashionistas, that anyone could look weirder than them, but this man has achieved it. No, the first thing that draws her eyes irresistibly is the aura surrounding him, almost of darkness. He is taller than all those around him, and his features are elegant, patrician, regal. His dark hair is pushed back from his pale, carved face, and he carries himself differently from most men. He is unusual, dark, lovely.
He's moving with a purpose, his clever eyes casting about warily. Rose has spent enough years in menial retail positions to identify what he's about to do, even if every bit of her (admittedly small) logical side is telling her that no actual shoplifter is really stupid enough to try shoplifting in a costume.
Rising from her bent position over the table, a pleather miniskirt still in her hands, Rose observes the strange man. He's pushing aside piles of checkered shirts, acid-wash jumpers, and grandpa cardigans, clearly searching for something. Her eyes never leaving him, she slowly moves along the shop floor, towards the Topman section, her finger on the mouthpiece of her headset as she prepares to alert the manager.
Loki pushes aside a ridiculous shirt with the 'universe' supposedly emblazoned upon it — it's wrong, at any rate, beyond simply being appalling — but when his gaze alights on a stack of black trousers, he feels relief. Finally, something useful. He was beginning to think he'd have to find another shop. He glances around for any watchers, but he is thickly surrounded by almost-Midgardian adolescents, all with expressions expertly mimicking that of stupefied, grazing cattle. Good. He takes the trousers and turns towards the wall, and with a bit of his own magic, they disappear for now inside his cloak.
This is almost too easy to be real, Loki realizes, and his sharp eyes rove over the shop in search of what or who will possibly foil his little plan. Nothing looks plausible … until he spots her.
She's unremarkable at best; even the lowliest of whores in Asgard were more noteworthy than her. With hair blonder than Thor's (undoubtedly unnatural; only gods have hair that blond) and lips a little too full, and a jaw a little too square, she is barely passable. She's not fat, necessarily, but she seems to think herself a size or two smaller than she really is, judging by the fit of her clothes. Then again, they show off her assets — her only points of value, as far as Loki can tell — so he can't exactly complain. Large gold circular earrings that hang nearly to her collarbone catch the light and glimmer in a cheap way.
Still, her dark brown eyes, surrounded by thick dark lashes and liner that is just as thick and dark, are watching him with the perceptiveness and alertness that, in his experiences, are only possessed by warriors and kings. For a brief flash, he feels uncomfortable; threatened; the notion causes an odd clench of inexplicable anticipation in his core. When he recalls, as always, that he is a god and she is nothing more than vermin in comparison, he relaxes again. Their eyes meet across the shop and he cannot resist giving her the barest hint of a smirk. You think you have me cornered, eh? Stupid little girl.
Loki stands in front of the trousers and makes a copy of the trousers he just stole. Normally, he would like for them to realize their missing inventory and agonize over where it might have gone, but in this case it will be more fun to see this pathetic, stupid girl punished for daring to try and catch him in the act of stealing.
When the man meets her eyes, a shiver runs down her spine, and Rose feels electroshocked. Fuck, what is with this bloke? She turns off her headset — she has the feeling that official responses will not help her with this headcase — and pretends to return to her business. Oh, so he thinks he's got me, does he? I'll show him.
Loki senses the girl return to her unnecessary folding and stacking and sorting. See? All humans simply want to be told what to do — no matter how stupid the task might be, he muses. Confident that she is finished observing him, Loki returns to his own task of procuring clothing that will help him blend in. He carefully takes note of what the cattle around him are wearing. However, he cannot quite bring himself to wear pink, as many of these humans do, and instead chooses a respectable dark green shirt and black shoes. He makes copies of these, not to appease any sense of morality, so much as to enjoy the thought of that Midgardian blonde foolishly insisting that he has shoplifted. As Loki sails out the front entrance, he amuses himself with images of her tearfully gesturing to her superiors as they look on in bemusement and show her that their numbers remain in check.
Rose drops a mesh crop top, her jaw hanging agape in shock. This nutter has actually got the bollocks to walk out the front door! In a fury, Rose dashes to the Topman section and paws through the clothes, though as she has no idea of what their inventory should be, she has no proof that theft has actually occurred, beyond the sixth sense she seems to possess about people that has haunted her all her life.
In all of her admittedly sheltered twenty-three years, she's always been an underachiever in most things, especially academically. She never cared much about a-levels and rarely could be bothered to crack open a textbook in her teen years. She had done well in gymnastics but never enough to merit much more than a brief spell of mediocre popularity, and though she is gutsy and often sassy, she has always on-and-off dated Mickey, so it isn't like her success lies in catching blokes.
But the thing is, she has always been able to read people, to sense things in an uncanny and wise way that baffled her mother during her childhood and continues to set her apart in some intangible way from other people her own age. When she sees people, she knows and understands them. She tells herself that this simply comes from wondering about other people and their thoughts in even the most banal ways, in ways that most people simply haven't got the time for, but her inner ego — a thing she rarely exercises, as she feels she's got little claim on bragging about much of anything — insists that, at least in this way, she's special.
This is why any other twenty-three year old girl with no a-levels and working in a dead end job might simply forget about the man. This is also why Rose is not really like any other twenty-three year old girl, no matter how much she might look and act like it.
"Where you goin" asks her coworker Emma, sidling up to her and chewing gum loudly. Rose sets aside the crop tops and ignores Emma and rips off her headset. Maybe this is just asking for her to get sacked, but then, wouldn't that mean that something different has finally happened?
"Excuse me, sir," she says loudly, stopping the man at the entrance. He actually has one foot out the door. He glances over his shoulder and looks down a straight, aristocratic nose at her. As always when being treated like this, Rose feels a mixture of insecurity and defiance that makes her stand up a little taller. Go on, then. Treat me like I'm nothing, she thinks fiercely, looking right back up at him. It'll be your mistake in the end.
"Yes?" His voice is smooth, cultured — he sounds like a posh bloke. He arches a dark brow at her, making her palms sweat and overpowering her with a sense of foolishness.
"Y-you have the right … to remain silent," she says a little lamely, her cheeks flushing. Thankfully she's wearing enough foundation to hide that, but she's also sweating and wondering if it'll simply melt off her face. It wasn't high-quality stuff, to be honest, as she's not exactly got money to blow on something that you wash off at the end of every day, no matter how much she would like to just go on a shopping spree in the cosmetics section at Harrods... Anyway.
"I'm aware," he parries, cocking his head to the side as he turns to face her.
"Stealing is a crime punishable by law," she begins again, inwardly scrambling to find that inner confidence she had just seconds ago. As always the shame comes creeping in: I'm nothing, I'm worthless, I've got no prospects, I do nothing of value... She takes a deep, shaking breath. "I am not accusing you of anything... yet... but I suspect that you... may... have shoplifted," she continues, wiping her palms on her denims. The man looks to be fighting back a snigger.
"Oh? And where might I hide these shoplifted items?"
"In your cape, you tosser," she snaps, hating how stupid and foolish he's making her feel. "I mean... sir," she adds in a surly tone, crossing her arms over her chest. The man actually has the gall to lower his gaze, and not briefly or subtly either, and she feels the urge to slap him. He's goading her, he's trying to belittle her.
With a smirk, he takes off his cape, revealing more of the strange outfit that looks too well-made to be a costume. It is tight — there is nowhere to hide a hairpin let alone a pair of trousers or a cap. He hands her the cape.
"Go on — search me." His wording, the tone, it all insinuates something quite suggestive and provocative. He's making a joke out of this; he's making her the fool. Her face is flaming and she feels unreasonably angry. Fuck everything. She'll probably get sacked for this, and even if she does get a different job, it'll be the same infinite monotony in a different part of London. Why did she think this was a good idea? Why can't she ever think before she acts? Scowling at him, lips pursed, she roughly shakes out the fabric. It's heavy, and the material isn't recognizable. I guess the serious nutters spend a lot on their toys, she thinks grumpily. Out of the corner of her eye, she spots her manager, Gavin, approaching her, and she shoves the cloak back at the man.
"Fine. I was wrong. Very sorry — good day." Before Gavin can apprehend her and fire her, Rose turns swiftly on her heel and stamps back over to her post by the mini skirts and crop tops.
Loki watches her, wanting to laugh and taunt her, but this embarrassment is amusing enough, he supposes. A ruddy-faced man, his potbelly straining against what is evidently meant to be a stylish jumper, is approaching, but halts as the girl stalks back to work, radiating fury. He must be her superior. Loki smirks at the fact that she has almost lost her job over this.
"Everything alright, sir?" asks the man, his features arranged into an expression of utmost concern. It is a poor job. Loki nods and turns on his heel. This was fun while it lasted, but now, he's got to get on with his plan of hiding in plain sight.
A week passes. Rose goes to work, usually five or six minutes late, as is her custom, and every night, she goes home to crap television and Jackie and cheap, greasy microwavable dinners, and sometimes, sex with Mickey that is blander than the flash-frozen potatoes she ate for dinner two nights ago. That man in the costume remains in the back of her mind, and she can't seem to eject him, no matter how hard she tries. She imagines, wildly, that he could actually be an alien, or something. Her weird ideas have always startled and unnerved other people, so she keeps them to herself, but she often cannot help but feel like they — humans — cannot possibly be alone in the universe.
Seven days after the Confrontation, as she thinks of it, Rose skives off her shift. It's a wet, snowy, grim day, and she cannot possibly bear the thought of another moment in Topshop. Instead, she walks up and down Oxford street, looking in the windows of the fanciest shops and thinking longingly of a life she cannot help but feel should have been hers.
It's in a Tesco that she spots him again. Even with his hair cut and his normal clothes — Topshop clothes, of course, she thinks with another stab of righteous fury — he stands out, as though radiating some sort of something to draw attention to himself. He glows and yet she cannot pinpoint how, other than the way her eyes are irresistibly drawn to him, powerless to stop from looking at him.
Holding a paper cup containing an overpriced latte that she couldn't really afford, shouldn't have bought, that is growing cold, Rose watches in wonder. He is standing in line, behind a fat woman with a crying baby and in front of a gaggle of silly girls that cannot stop giggling. He is holding an odd assortment of food: a pound of butter, a squash, a slab of meat, and a cake. His black hair is a bit shorter, a bit neater, but it's still longer than most blokes keep it, and his clothes, though they are nondescript as possible, are still worn like a costume.
She longs to march up to him and upend that cake on his bloody smug head, but this time she forces herself to keep her cool. She hangs back, pretending to examine a tin of spam, and keeps a surreptitious eye on him.
Somehow — she cannot find the seam between events; how did he do it? — he is no longer in line, but is walking out the door, his items weighing down a plastic Tesco bag. Mystified, Rose tosses aside the spam and winces when it hits the ground, splattering everywhere. Before anyone can reprimand her, she scurries out of the store, determined to follow the man. For good measure, even though it's a rather grim day outside, she dons her large white sunglasses that are cheap replicas of a pair of designer ones she rather liked but would have taken her years to save up, even if she had forgone all other pleasures such as expensive lattes and cute hoop earrings and nights out on the town.
Her mobile buzzes with texts: where r u? And, ur so gnna get sakd, and other assorted missives. She turns off her mobile. She's on a mission — she'll deal with real life later.
On the street, women glance at the man, they follow him with their gaze just as she did, lust painting their expressions. Rose feels a stab of annoyance. Stop looking, she thinks grumpily. You shouldn't want to get with a shoplifter. Besides, that costume was bloody strange.
Still, she cannot help but admire the way the jumper pulls across his svelte shoulders, the way the black slim-cut denims hug his tight arse. He's a beautiful man, and the tightness of the denim across his crotch suggest there's.. more... to him than necessarily meets the eye.
He stops at a dingy building, presses the buzzer, and then heads inside. Damn. Can't follow him, she inwardly swears. She settles for sitting across the street on a bench. She'll wait a half hour, and if he doesn't come back out, at least she knows where he lives. She is positive he stole that food — though she can't prove it, as he was in line and then he wasn't and how did he do it?! It drives her absolutely mental.
It's five o'clock now, and her shift ends now. Rose slumps on the bench, thinking of the consequences of her actions today. She looks down at the empty cup, the latte that probably overdrew her bank account, and guilt twists her gut painfully. Going nowhere — Rose Tyler, everyone, she thinks wryly. She'll get sacked, her mum will coo over how it's not the end of the world, she can just get another job, plenty of shops in London, eh? She can hear Jackie saying it so easily she mentally says it in Jackie's voice and not her own.
But I don't want another crap job, mum, Rose admits sadly. She thinks of the shops on Oxford, she thinks of flashing cameras and crowds of adoring fans, she thinks of how it would feel to have all of her old mates she went to school with see her on the cover of Vogue in some sort of designer confection... Is she really destined to be nothing, is she really destined to draw excitement from following strange shoplifting men in capes around London?
She turns her mobile on in resignation: time to face reality. There is a voicemail from Gavin: she needn't bother coming in to work; they will mail her things from her locker to her; she needn't expect a reference from him. Rose bites her lip, blinks, and hits numbers on her mobile. It rings, and then a familiar voice is heard.
"Mickey? Let's go out tonight," she says in a thick voice as she wipes at her eyes.
Rose can tell Mickey's pleased with himself. After all, he's landed them spots in the VIP section of one of the hottest clubs in town, 'Gris', and now they are seated in a cramped, dark booth papered with silver along the walls, with frosty techno music pulsing. Mickey's suit doesn't quite fit him but he sits there with boyish excitement and she tries to muster a smile; she twists her lips and scrunches her eyes a bit but no warmth comes of it.
"I've got to use the loo. Be right back," she says, and stands up, straightening out her red bandage dress. She wobbles along in the stilettos she's not used to, and wends her way through groups of immaculately dressed professionals. She feels like an outsider. Maybe I would have been unhappy with celebrity, she muses drunkenly.
Then she sees him again, and she sways and has to grab a bloke next to her to stop her from tipping over. In a charcoal suit so beautifully cut it could make a person cry, he stands there, hidden in plain sight, a glass of clear liquid — probably vodka or gin — in an elegant hand. Across the room their eyes meet and he tilts his head, his eyes narrowing into knowing crescents. He is beckoning; she must go to him.
"You robbed a Topshop and a Tesco and probably Tom Ford too, by the looks of it," she greets, considering tossing her drink in his face. An idea occurs to her that she would have been able to logic her way out of were she not drunk. "It's your fault I got sacked," she adds, surprising herself with this conviction. After all, it isn't actually directly his fault. He was just the catalyst.
Surrounded by people, in this dark club, they are in their own world, in a way. It's a world different from her own, and Rose is relieved for that.
"But can you prove it?" There it is — that smooth, cultured voice that makes her tummy clench with something. Is she attracted to him? Can I really be attracted to a mental bloke that wears costumes from Lord of the Rings or something and steals butter from Tesco? She ponders this with the sincerity that only inebriation can bring.
"Working on it," she retorts, then, rather brashly, reaches out and grabs at his glass. She's going to down it, then she's going to go to the bathroom and vomit, and then she's going to go home. Fuck everything — she's done with this night, done with this life.
But he won't relinquish the glass. Their fingers brush and she feels a sensation that hasn't happened in – well, in a long time.
"You know you can't prove it. Why try?" he muses, pulling back the glass. She won't let go, even if her hand is clammy with sweat and the condensation on the glass. She feels overheated; trapped; suffocated.
"I don't always do the smart thing but I believe in doing the right thing," she retorts, and pulls back on the glass. It sloshes over the rim and dribbles down her dress.
Loki feels a stab of fury. This girl will not back down. He rips the glass from her hand with a strength only a god can possess, and her eyes — he can appreciate that they are pretty, they're big and expressive and filled with spirit — widen in shock. Her full lips — in this light they are sensuous and not garish, as he thought before — part in an 'o' shape that makes his clever mind go places it ought not go. The dress is too tight but her full breast is heaving and her hair, pulled back, is escaping its confines and sticking to her smooth neck and decollete with sweat.
"Or perhaps you believe in doing the exciting thing," he parries quietly, in such a low voice that she must strain and lean forward to hear it. It gives him a better view down her dress and he feels that same clench of anticipation in his core.
He came here because he can't resist the high life in any realm; he's always appreciated having the best of the best. One gets sort of used to it, being a prince, and even if he wasn't Odin's favorite, he never went without in terms of material things. He has an eye for finery no matter where he is and enjoys swimming at the top of the food chain. Here in Gris, in the suit that was, in fact, stolen, pretending to be a well-to-do investor, he can pretend he's one of Midgard's elite.
But now that this girl, who is so clearly not elite, is here, it's ruining everything. With her peasant-like figure and her gritty attitude, she is dashing the mirage of belonging that he's been constructing, and he resents her for it. Not only that, but she's not backing down, and while this new sensation of being defied by someone arguably powerless is amusing and intriguing, it's also maddening. It's upending his notions of being more, of being better. Why does she seem to think she's special? She is nothing, compared to anyone, let alone him. She's got spirit in spades, and it's all for naught.
He'd love to break that spirit. The idea is heady, tantalizing. Hiding here, keeping to himself, is boring, and he's tired of playing this game. He wants fun, he wants excitement, he wants all hell to break loose. Stealing from stupid unsuspecting Midgardians is amusing for a day or two, but he's grown accustomed to mischief on a much larger scale — nicking cakes from shops just cannot compete.
The challenge she poses is enticing — as is all that skin, all on display. Who is it on display for? He can't imagine any impotent little Midgardian man knowing how to handle a woman like her. Why would she bother with the likes of them? She's too much, in every way.
The girl bites her full lower lip, her eyes widening again — evidently she is suffering some sort of inward battle — and she reaches out and grabs at the glass. He lets her take it — for now. Her eyes dance with power, and, maintaining his gaze, she tosses back the drink, the muscles in her throat working hypnotically. He imagines tightening his grip round that throat, and a pulse of desire, quick and powerful, rips through him.
She hands him back the drink, looking extremely satisfied, as though she's won something. Loki's lips, so much thinner than hers, curve in a half smile. They are so different — he is fair where she is tan, he is dark where she is light, he is all hard lines where she is all soft curves. She shines bright, like Thor, where he is darkness. An idea is taking form in his clever mind, furthering his grin.
"Come home with me." It's an order, not a request. He watches her gulp; she is at least intelligent enough to perceive this difference. Still, he can see the temptation in her eyes. He recognizes that look: she's bored, and she's willing to do anything — anything — to change that. He knows how that feels.
That suits his plans just fine.
"Why should I?" She lifts her chin in defiance and he imagines gripping her chin, pulling her hair, making her beg for him. What an amusing little girl she is.
"Because I told you to," he says in a sibilant voice. In a plume of darkness, she acquiesces. He has won.
This isn't the flat she saw him enter earlier today. He works fast — he's already had time to procure a penthouse in one of the prime spots in London. Rose thinks of Mickey as she looks out at the spectacular view of London, abandoned in Gris, wondering desperately where she has gone, like a child lost at the shopping mall, looking for his mum. Guilt sets in but only for so long. I believe in doing the right thing. Even at the time, she knew these words were absurd, foolish. She'll only ever do the right thing if it's interesting. She's willing to sacrifice everything she has for something different.
But is that true? She can imagine great sacrifice on her part; she's never had a chance to prove herself in that way so she wouldn't know. And anyway, who can say what has motivated the great heroes throughout history? In context, everything and anything can look noble — you rarely get a peek inside others' minds; you rarely get to find out the truth.
The lights go out; the floor-to-ceiling windows supply the light from London, bathing the large penthouse in a blue glow, silhouetting the girl. Loki observes her form appreciatively.
"Kneel on the floor." His voice is quiet; little more than a hiss. Rose stands her ground and turns to face him.
"Why should I?"
The man's face is cast in blue light; he looks otherworldly.
"Must we go through this again?"
"I don't do anything just because someone tells me to. It happens to be a weakness of mine," she replies, advancing on him. "I've never been too good at following the rules."
"What about the rules of a god?" His words prickle the hairs on her neck. For the first time, she feels a true spike of fear. Her mind frantically casts back to flickers, images, mental clippings cobbled together from crime shows, from internet posts, from rumors, from newspapers: there are crazy men out there. There are crazy men, filled with delusions about themselves, and they are out there masquerading as normal people who could hurt you at any time.
The thing is, there is nothing normal about this man, and 'godlike' is the only word that currently comes to mind to describe him. Admittedly her vocabulary has never been that impressive...
"I don't understand," she finally confesses. She meets his sea green eyes with her own brown ones. He cocks his head to the side, studying her.
"Why did you come home with me, if not because I told you to?"
Rose shuffles her feet, which are aching in the heels that are too high, but she does not consider taking them off. They give her some height; they make her feel more equal to him. She cannot place exactly why she needs to feel on equal terms with this man.
"Because I'm bored. I've been bored all my life," she admits. "I love my mum but I resent her for letting me always take the lazy way out of things, and here I am, with no future or prospects. I'll be bored until I die."
Her words do not surprise Loki.
"And what did you expect would happen tonight that would change that?"
"I don't know." She fidgets with her hands and shakes her head; her hair and long earrings sway with the motion, catching the dim light. "What did you expect would happen when you invited me? What do you want from me?"
Loki considers this. His hand moves subtly and distantly the locks click, barring her from escape. He wonders if she senses how much danger she is in — rather, he wonders if she cares. He cannot stop a grin from curving his lips.
"Only your complete and total submission."
His tone is so innocent, so genuine. Rose draws in a sharp breath and steps back, tottering on her heels. Bloody useless shoes, she mentally swears as she stumbles back and takes them off. They give her height but tripping won't help her situation now. The man's eyes flash with triumph — yes, Loki thinks, she understands.
"You're sick," she hisses, her brown eyes flashing. He can see her calculating the odds of escape, he can see her calculating the probability of what is about to occur. Loki prefers games, not conquests, so he decides to put the ball in her court for the moment.
He backs up, holding his hands in the air.
"I don't want to forcefully take anything — I want you to willingly give it to me," he explains lightly, backing against the wall. "Submission is a choice."
"You've locked me in — I hardly have a choice," she bites back, jiggling the handle frantically. How quickly things have escalated. Loki unlocks the door with his magic.
"There. Now you have a choice. You can leave freely, go back to your boring life — or you can spend the night with me."
His voice is diaphanous and icy and it pauses her hand on the doorknob. Her mouth goes dry.
All her life, she has been ruled by a taste for adventure and excitement that has never been satisfied. She's a reckless spirit trapped in a boring world filled with rules and confines. This man, with all of his deceitful glimmering in his aura, presents a change.
Submission is a choice.
What would it mean to submit? She has vague notions of chains and whips and begging, and yet, somehow she suspects that those will not be involved here. I want you to willingly give it to me. What does he mean by 'it'? Will she be found cut into tiny bits weeks from now by the police? Is she giving him her life? Or is she simply giving him one night? Does it matter?
Of course it does. I don't want to die, she reasons. That's an easy choice. She looks at him again. He's not touched her and yet it feels as though he is tugging her forward, away from the door. His face is in shadow and looks remarkably skeletal. It's macabre but lovely.
She takes her hand off the doorknob.
"What do you mean by submit?" Her voice is soft, curious. Loki feels that same clench of attraction. She's not afraid; she's filled with wonder about the danger he represents. He wants to own that curiosity, he longs to possess it.
"Kneel," he replies, his voice just as velvety and soft.
Rose comes away from the door. In the center of the room, silhouetted by the lights from the city, she kneels on the carpet. She looks down at the floor, holding her breath. This is exciting, this is different. What will he do to her? She hears him moving and soon finds herself looking down at his immaculate black dress shoes. He is a man with impeccable taste. She does not dare look up, yet she finds her lips curving in a smirk.
This is not a game she's ever played before, yet somehow she already knows all the rules.
"Look at me."
She lifts her chin, her gaze roving up his long lean form, lingering cheekily on his crotch, before finally reaching his eyes. He reaches down and, oddly, caresses her face. His hand is cold and dry. "What do you want me to do to you?" He watches her draw in a deep, steadying breath, and delights in the way her dress strains against the movement.
"Anything."